The Pixie's Diary
by Boggy
Summary: Every child has a beginning. Every man has a story to tell. Every story has a beginning. Somehow, amidst the choas, a father's love prevails. Status: ON-GOING
1. Entry 1: The Man With the Magical Touch

Author's Note: I've spent the past few weeks pondering the connection between a father and his children, and the importance of his role and influence within the family unit. I, personally, am very close to my father, and often prefer his attention to the attention of my mother. There is something truly spiritual about the presence of a man in the household; he is a covering over the family, a protection. Therefore, I have found myself increasingly fascinated with the psychological and emotional impact a father has within the family establishment. 

The following piece is the first in a series of short vignettes focusing on the relationship between Seiji and his father (with the other members of his family, in brief) during Seiji's early years (i.e. childhood). I hope to capture the mischievous and rebellious behavior of Seiji in a realistic manner, and explore the various ways in which he interacts with each respective character. 

  
Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors/Yoroiden Samurai Troopers is © to Sunrise, Nagoya TV, and Sony Music Entertainment. 

"The Pixie's Diary"  
Entry 1: The Man With the Magical Touch  
By Boggy 

Bobbed hair adorned the slim and perfect curves of the small child's tender and exotic face. The black of her hair was contrasted by the ivory pale complexity of her skin, and the strange eye color-violet-that saw the world unwaveringly, only added to the oddities of the child's uniqueness. An array of colorful silk and brilliant patterns decorated the meticulously coordinated ensemble that encircled the girl's impish form. The fine obi sash wrapped about the child's kimono in an elaborate combination of twists and ties forming a spectacular, whispering bow at the child's back. It trailed behind her like fairy dust, while she scurried amongst the house. 

The mother of the pretty child-who was by no means unattractive by any stretch of the imagination-busied herself with routine tasks; her eyes periodically glancing towards her daughter. Much of the impish child's strength and power likely derived from the firm hand of this elegant woman, who dedicatedly cared for the dojo while the official head of the household tended to other matters. 

Tragically, the pretty child was plagued with illness. Most days, she stayed within the protective walls of the dojo, waiting out her sickly years in solitude and confinement. However, today was one of the child's better days when "Okaasama" allowed her to rummage freely about the house. It was only natural that the child should be restless, so the freedom was to relieve the pent up energy compiled during the long and boring days of staying in bed. The child enjoyed windows, particularly, as she could stare at the sunshine that poured through the glass. And as she stared at that sunlight, the child moved with new energy, as though rejuvenated by the brilliant rays of the sun's warmth. 

Truly, she was a child of the light. And anyone who witnessed the secret behind the child's raven hair would think she a child blessed by Amaterasu herself. 

  
Suddenly, the child stopped. 

The mother noted this eerie and uncommon habit, as the child stood silently in the kitchen doorway. Wonder and concern passed through the woman's mind, as she stood behind the kitchen table; a hand steadily placed upon the nearest wall's edge. If it were not for the wall's support, the mother would have rushed forth, grabbed the child's shoulders and asked desperately, "What is it, my child? What is it that you see?" 

In truth, the child didn't see anything. What she _heard_ was the sound of an approaching visitor, who rattled the bells of the dojo's main gate. Curiously, she made her way to the front door and peered out. 

"Wait, child! Don't go outside without me!" 

The child disobeyed her mother's orders and went outside anyway. She touched lightly down the front steps and glided across the open yard, stopping just short of the dojo's main gate. She cocked her head to one side, hoping that someone of interest had come to visit. 

The mother eventually caught up to the child, aggravated by the child's deliberate disobedience. "I am very displeased with your behavior! You shouldn't run off like that!" 

Unfazed, the child pointed towards the door. She laughed knowing that her mother had no time to scold, since someone was awaiting at the front gate. Following her daughter's finger, the mother took quick notice of her guest. 

It was her sister and the child's aunt. 

She proceeded to the entrance and bowed low (or as low as one could in her position), escorting her older sibling to the front of the house. Conversation ensued. 

"My, my! You must be due any day now." 

"Hai." The woman placed a steady hand on her swollen stomach. "Besides the child, the loss of this unattractive weight will be my greatest pleasure." 

The two women laughed quietly. It was a laughter understood only by two women who, at one point or another, had experienced the unpleasant circumstances of pregnancy. 

The child, taking notice of their odd burst of humor, stared quietly at her mother and the unfamiliar visitor with whom she conversed. In turn, the aunt took immediate notice of the child's mirthless stare. 

And she shuddered. 

The aunt's actions, subtle as they were, set her up for immediate rejection, had she any favor with the child to begin with. Of all age groups, young children are most sensitive to the behavioral patterns of their elders. Because they often lack the comprehension of speech, feelings and movements are necessary to communicate a person's thoughts. In this case, the aunt communicated her immediate disapproval of her sister's daughter. 

Unknown to the child, she and her aunt had met once before, just shortly after the child's birth. Naturally, the child has no memory of being born, as no one does. But it can be assumed that should the child have some faint recollection of their initial meeting, she would note a similar reaction from both parties; establishing the cold fact that neither aunt nor child held any sort of fondness for the other. 

In an attempt to make peace and uphold maternal composure in the face of her sister, the aunt bent down with the absurd notion of picking the child up. With her coldest glare and a sharp flick of her head, the child backed away from her aunt and ran to an area out of arms reach. Appalled and slightly embarrassed, the woman stood erect, hoping that the firmness with which she stood would help to regain a portion of her lost pride. The mother apologized profusely. 

"Forgive me. I should have warned you about my child. She runs away from even her own mother's embrace, and does not take kindly to strangers. Her father is the only one whom she will sometimes approach with affection." 

The woman batted the matter away with her hand, although she was visibly irritated. 

And in such cases of rejection, blame is inevitably placed. 

"Everything is fine. Children are temperamental and inconsistent, and it's foolish to think the child would remember me." The woman's eyes narrowed. "Still, it is only natural she should approach her father; she is of his blood." 

As you might have guessed, addressing the origins of the child's blood was not an attempt to give compliment. Rather, the indication of her father's blood was meant to justify the unsatisfactory behavior of the rebellious child. 

"Oneesan." Her voice was firm. "My husband is a steadfast man with clear vision. Whatever his faults, that child is the not the product of them!" 

The sister bowed low. "My apologies. I said something uncalled for. I should not have spoken so independently." 

The mother accepted her sister's apology with a bow in response. However, the young child had listened closely to their conversation, and was not so forgiving. 

How much of the conversation did the child actually understand? Could the child, bright as she was, truly grasp the full meaning of the words transferred between her mother and aunt? That is difficult to say; she was but a child of three. But as her father walked through the entrance gate of the dojo, the child saw an opportune time to give her own response to the woman's apology. 

  
He entered the dojo with a small sigh. It had been a difficult day at work, and his eyes closed in memory of the ordeals faced. It seemed like nothing was simple anymore! Nowadays, young kids were roaming the streets and getting into trouble, and causing a lot of problems for their elders. Similarly, his kids would be exploring the streets themselves within a few years... 

No!  He would not let his precious offspring mingle with the filth that polluted the peaceful streets of Sendai. They would be sheltered and protected and raised with a supportive hand, as all children should! 

...But he could not shelter them too much. After all, it was impossible to protect kids from everything, and they would have to learn how to survive in the real world. 

Do all fathers worry this much? Ah well... What relief he felt to be home! 

Bringing his head to attention, his eyes caught sight of his wife and sister-in-law awaiting his arrival at the front of their house. Shaking off his fatigue, he greeted his sister-in-law with a deep bow, which she formally returned. For his wife, he placed a gentle hand upon her stomach and frowned. 

Why wasn't she resting inside? 

Gently, she touched his shoulder, letting him know that all was well. Placing his own hand upon hers, he nodded his response. It was hard for him not to worry about his wife so late in her pregnancy. Any day now, the newest addition to the Date household would be due. Thinking about it only made things worse. 

He had been like this with the first child...and the second...and would be inevitably with any child to come.  But he would be strong for his family, nevertheless. 

The aunt gave a small laugh, interrupting his determined thoughts. "We were just talking about you."  Her smile sang of unspoken secrets. 

He cocked his head to the side, unlocking a childlike innocence in his features. "Oh?" 

Before any additional comments could be made, the devilish child had stolen silently across the yard and wedged herself between her aunt and her father. The aunt shot back a bit, startled by the child's sudden appearance. The father almost lost his grip on the jacket he was carrying and nearly fell forward onto the child. The mother cringed, fearing the child was suffering from another mischievous "episode." 

The child did nothing, except stare calmly into the eyes of her father. 

He did not shudder. 

He did not pull back. 

He passed no judgment. 

Satisfied, she clasped her hands about his knees possessively, her tiny hands tugging at the fabric of his pants. Both the mother and her sister gasped. The father stared down at his child, a bit surprised himself. 

Overwhelmed with joy at the child's action, the father's shock quickly melted away. He stared warmly at his child, and outstretched his right hand to her. Thoughtfully, she clasped his gentle hand and took it between each of her own, placing it against her cheek. In response, the father bent down to the child's level, placing his left hand upon the child's other cheek. They looked at one another a moment; the child's hands resting lightly on each of her father's. Happily, the girl laughed up at him, a strange emotion filling her eyes. 

...For a moment, and only a moment, time stood still. 

The child scurried off to another area of the yard laughing, apparently hit by another wave of energy. The aunt continued her conversations with the child's mother. She once again wrote off the child's behavior as "natural." 

The father, standing amongst his wife and sister-in-law, saw only the child.


	2. Entry 2: Seiji

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Author's Note: For the sake of controversy and conflict of opinion, I will refer to this story as a "saga," namely because the story covers the childhood of our main character, Date Seiji. Of course, we all know these short reflections are more appropriately titled "vignettes," as they are able to stand alone as individual tales. In any case, I have envisioned specific scenarios for each vignette with the following being the most difficult of the set to write. As a result, it has taken me much longer than anticipated to produce the second chapter for "The Pixie's Diary." 

Of all my stories, "The Pixie's Diary" is my absolute favorite, as it deals solely with Seiji at a period of his life when relationships are a key factor in shaping his character for the future—specifically, the relationship between Seiji and his father. Since the story revolves around their interaction, I'd like to stress the importance—once again—of a father's influence and presence within the family unit. I feel the father is the most significant (and ultimately dominant) figure of the household, and I cherish that interaction to all other filial relationships. 

Also, please forgive my blatant change of tense at the beginning of the chapter. Using correct tense is a must as far as I'm concerned, but there were unavoidable exceptions due to the subject matter of the first several paragraphs. Since my beginning paragraph is a definition (and the following paragraph merely an extension of that definition), the "present" tense used is speaking in a general term, as though my "spring" is a generalization for a "spring" found everywhere else. It is also used to emphasize that while the story occurs at some point in the past, the concept of "spring" still applies today, as it is a constant, never-ending cycle. 

Please review with any corrections or suggestions. Thank you. 

  
Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors/Yoroiden Samurai Troopers is © to Sunrise, Nagoya TV, and Sony Music Entertainment. 

"The Pixie's Diary"  
Entry 2: "Seiji"  
By Boggy 

By definition, spring is the season of the year occurring between winter and summer, during which the weather becomes warmer and plants revive, extending in the Northern Hemisphere from the vernal equinox to the summer solstice and popularly considered to comprise March, April, and May. 

While this definition is accurate by scientific terms—and certainly applies to the country of Japan—most residents of Sendai generally refer to spring as a frozen moment in time; when the beauty of the sakura blossom is at its fullest. The sun's gentle beams warm the air, and the wind blows whimsically at the welcome change from winter's glacial pique. Eager to play the wind and sun's magical game, the sakura branches extend to the sky, swaying in rhythm to nature's silent song. With each swinging motion, yet another sakura blossom falls to the ground, sprinkling the earth with God's wonders and covering the ground in a blanket of brilliant coral. Truly, the changing of winter to spring is a marvelous site. 

In particular, the spring of our story is an exceptionally marvelous site. 

Now, most will argue that the image of spring pales in comparison to the fairy-like movements of our pixie child. In fact, most believe that spring is inspired, or even jealous of the infant beauty. The sakura branches dance not only to welcome the breath of spring, but also to mimic the girl's light footsteps as she strolls softly along the awakening earth. 

Some argue that the impish girl is not a girl at all, but an ethereal projection of the sun. Blind spots form when an individual stares too closely into the sun. These blind spots distort the eye's vision and form a hallucination from the recesses of one's mind—in this case, the image of an unfathomably beautiful child. 

Even more argue that the image of the child is romanticized to indulge weary travelers with fantastic stories in aberration from the cliché tales of beautiful maidens and powerful samurai. Only those who've never seen the child themselves, however, entertain such stories. 

Regardless of the story told, the impact of this child's existence remains. 

  
Thursday was another good day for the child. In fact, she had been spared from spells and sudden illness for the past week. These moments of wellness and peace were rare blessings in the Date household, and the mother cherished her brief moment of relief. 

However, the mother couldn't help but wonder if these periods of reprieve were a sign of the child's hopeful recovery, or a foul tease of the universe at a foolish attempt to keep faith. But so long as the child showed signs of production, so long as she breathed another breath and lived another day, the mother would continue to believe in a bright future for her terribly ill fated child. 

Interestingly enough, it was not only the child's health that showed gradual signs of improvement; the weather had also taken a turn for the better. The wind had long since lost its arctic chill, and the greenery of Mother Earth was at its fullest. 

Nature's greatest gift, however, was to be the newborn child that would soon grace the halls of the Date family's lovely home. The child was, excitably enough, due any day. 

The thrill of childbirth always reaches its peak with a couple's first child, but the anticipation of a newborn never dies. The mother felt this anticipation with every waking moment, so much that she longed for the hour when the baby would finally release itself from her stomach's slumbering care. 

Of course, whether the child was to be a boy or girl was the topic of heated discussion at family dinners, particularly among the house elders. 

This was the mother's third pregnancy. She had already provided the family with a son to continue the Date line, but a second male would give additional protection to their prestigious clan, especially considering the conditions regarding their current male. 

Those conditions, of course, were never spoken of in the format of casual conversation. 

Regardless of the baby's gender, the mother would love and care for the child, as would the father. To be perfectly honest, her husband enjoyed their children to a greater degree than even herself. He was always equipped with a soft smile and a gentle embrace for his little ones, and the innocent chirp of "Otousama" never failed to catch the attention of his keen ears. 

To a certain extent, he was probably going for popularity points, given he spent more time at the police station taking cases and filling out paperwork than he did coming home at a decent hour. Only in rare instances was he able to put the children to bed, or enjoy a warm dinner in the evenings—and he was certainly no stranger to sleeping at the office. 

More importantly, the atmosphere of the entire dojo shifted depending on the father's influential absence or presence. With the father home, the children seemed to float, as though the weight of the universe was flung from their backs. They slept soundly in their beds, wisped away by the gentle waves of an unspoken dream, conjured only by the callow thoughts of an innocent child. 

With her husband gone, an uneasy heaviness, perhaps even fear, hung over the shoulders of their children. Their youngest, especially, would listen near the main gate for the ringing of bells and the sound of her father's familiar footsteps. This action continuously struck the mother as odd, given the mischievous child seemed concerned only of her father's whereabouts and not the happenings or whereabouts of any other family member. Nor did the child seem much concerned with anything save causing terror in the household or blatantly ignoring the demands of her elders. 

For the moment, though, the child was still. She sat quietly near the main gate, awaiting her father's definite arrival. He had called earlier in the day, promising to be home by dinner. Through some absentminded rambling—as mothers often have when left companionless in an empty house—she must have mentioned this fact to the child. The mother now scolded herself for allowing such information to slip. 

The child, knowing her father would soon return, refused to budge from her sitting post at the gate's walkway. The mother, realizing the girl had gone into "stubborn mode," would be hard-pressed to remove the child without some sort of confrontation. 

Today was not a good day for confrontations. 

Slapping the child's leg was something the mother had grown accustomed to. Her father had used similar forms of discipline during her own innocence, and was a firm believer that an occasional swatting was always the best medicine for a child gone astray. Because of this mindset, she felt neither remorse nor guilt for discouraging her child's negative behavior. 

Even with the use of physical force, the child was an infuriating element. Approached by an adult, the child would typically escape to "higher ground" for fear of being held or embraced by a person of unfamiliar turf or unwanted attention. Quite surprising was the child's determination when approached by an adult with the intentions of enforcing discipline. The typically fleeting child would stand her ground firmly, allowing the ominous glares of her elders to clash against the passionate defiance of her own. 

Playing fate's next move carefully, the mother approached her small child with motherly affection. With an arm outstretched to catch the pale hand of her daughter, the mother initiated her plan of cheerfully coaxing the child into submission. 

"Do you feel that, child?" On hearing her mother's voice, the girl glanced upward. She paid no attention to the outstretched hand. 

"Your father approaches. I can feel his essence in the wind." 

In truth, she felt no such spiritual force in the air. What she could _see_ were the ominous, black clouds looming overhead. If she did not hurry, both she and the child would be caught in a vicious rainstorm. The child was certain to catch cold if left at the mercy of the elements. 

Much to the mother's dismay, the child refused to buy into her act. The small girl knew of similar tactics that adults often used to gain her favor. Their actions were always phony, with ulterior motives in mind. The fact that her own mother had stooped to such methods infuriated her. 

She refused to accept the hand of a corrupted mother! 

Irritated, the small girl moved away from her mother and inched closer to the gate. Her eyes stared straight ahead, as though her mother had never approached her. This act of indifference aggravated the mother, but she had learned that patience was a necessity when dealing with her rebellious daughter. 

Following suit, the mother took a step towards the child in hopes of catching the hem of her kimono. In response to her mother's advances, the child moved further away, this time leveling an icy glare in the older woman's direction. Both bodies stared hard at one another, the mother leaning over slightly from her last attempt to grab the child. Now it was simply a matter of willpower. 

The mother broke first. 

"Impertinent girl! What wrongdoings have I committed to deserve such an ill-behaved daughter? How is it that I find strength to tolerate you?" 

Almost immediately, the mother regretted her words. 

Refusing to be spoken to in such a harsh manner, the child ran off in the opposite direction, sprinting across the Date estate as quickly as her petite body would carry her. The elaborate bow at the back of her kimono fluttered in the wind. 

Hadn't she known better, the mother would have sworn she saw a fairy. 

  
The child did not bother to look back. She sprinted through a chrysanthemum patch near the dojo, across the stone steps of the family shrine, and past the side walls of the main house to a trickling stream that ran through a circle of trees at the edge of the Date's estate. 

Stopping just short of the stream, the child approached the sparkling water with caution and fatigue. As she peered over the edge and onto the water's surface, an odd feeling enveloped her senses. Lifting a small hand to her face, the child ran a pale finger over the flushed skin, as though wiping away an invisible blemish. She stared long and hard at her reflection, analyzing the girl trapped within the water's magic. And as her eyes pierced the clear liquid, she jumped at a newfound realization. 

It suddenly became clear as to who her mother had been speaking to. It was not her, the child reasoned, as it was not her reflection that stared back at her in the stream. 

The girl in the water—she was an imposter! 

  
After a bit of huffing, puffing, and an occasional harsh word, the mother caught up with her child at the water's edge. She stopped just short of the stream, choosing to stand quietly by a nearby tree to catch her breath. 

Before addressing her daughter, she stared up at the blackening sky, noticing its condition had taken a turn for the worse. Frowning, she placed a steady hand against the bark of a sakura tree and prayed for the confidence and wisdom to handle her child. She would have to contend with the matter quickly if she was to return the child to the safety and security of their house. The mother worried, however, about the cooperation of her daughter. She had said, after all, a round of rather harsh and upsetting words; her child was not so forgiving. 

Though the clouds above had darkened considerably, a small patch of sunlight struggled through the menacing storm clouds. Interestingly enough, the brilliant light pouring through the darkness came not from the sun, but from the child that stood a few feet to the front of her mother. Challenging the very laws of nature, she stood uninhibited in all her unveiled luminance; a black, draping object clasped between the fragile fingers of her tiny hand. 

Aware of her mother's presence, the child flicked her head around to face the woman directly. Her violet gaze pierced through the howling winds and into the eyes of her startled mother. Wary, but not intimidated, the mother flung herself into the icy nothingness of her child's pupils. 

A light rain began to trickle against the rough bark of the sakura trees. Their magical blossoms of pink and white hues plummeted to the ground at the mercy of the mighty winds. Streaks of purple and yellow illuminated the sky, personifying the silent screams passing between mother and child. The heavens boomed passionately at the flashing performance, applauding the great masterpiece of God. The trickling of water was nature's only proof that somewhere, somehow, time continued to move forward. 

Out of instinct, or some subconscious need to restore the ripple of time, the mother took an advancing step towards her daughter. 

It is still unknown as to what motivated the child's actions. Perhaps the child felt the need to express herself in a way words could not communicate. Perhaps the child was consumed by an insuppressible anger. Maybe the child longed for a degree of attention with such an intensity that only through an unpredictable act of absurdity could she attain such recognition. 

Tightening her grip, the child thrust the black imposter into the stream. It fell forcefully against the water's surface, settling momentarily before submerging. The child watched the object float peacefully, an unreadable melancholy masking her fair features. 

Though the child stared at the object for but a mere moment, it felt like an eternity to the mother. She watched as the unmasked child turned to face her, staring at the forbidden features shining in the darkness. The imposter had been thrust from the child's body, and behind it stood the inevitable, painful reality. 

Reality spoke a thousand truths to the woman. Like an infant yanked from her mother's arms at birth, she had, at some point, lost sight of who her child truly was. Instead of fighting the illness that plagued the innocent's body, she struggled against the very person she fought so hard to protect. At what point had the child become her enemy? At what point had she lost sight of the true evil that controlled their lives? 

Suddenly, it became clear. She remembered what is was that fueled her faith. It was more than just relieving the child of a reoccurring illness, or protecting an important heir to the throne of a prestigious family. It was more than impressing obnoxious kin with an appropriate and obedient child who would bring boundless honor and pride to their clan. It was more than holding one's head high in the face of hopelessness and humiliation. It was more… 

Restoring the child's health was the same as restoring the child's soul. Somewhere along the way, she had lost sight of that. 

Voice barely above a whisper, the mother spoke an unbreakable promise to the child. "I will free you. I will free your soul, and destroy the imposter who imprisons your heart." 

She extended an arm down to the child, her expression serious and hopeful. The mother's offer was again refused, but the child stared at her with a thoughtfulness that had somehow lost its way in their earlier confrontation. The mother took special note of this, and smiled inwardly. Perhaps there was hope for her child after all. 

So involved was the mother in her revelation that several moments passed before she realized a light coat had been placed around her shoulders. 

It was her husband's jacket. 

Mentally exhausted, the woman aligned her weary body with that of her husband's, pulling either end of the raincoat closer to her body to shield herself from the cascading showers. She took a moment to analyze his face. 

His expression was calm and his features quiet, but his eyes sparkled with a revelation of their own, as though the unveiled child standing before them held as much meaning to him as it had for her. 

Running a gentle hand through her soaked hair, his fingers traced the smooth lines of her jaw, causing her neck to arch at the sensation. Her fingers grazed against his own lightly, and she smiled at his affectionate touch. 

An intimate moment passed between them, understood only by the language of lifelong lovers. That secret exchange was the bond that held them together, even in the midst of chaos and havoc. Though young and inexperienced, that bond proved sufficient enough to hold their turbulent family together. 

Reluctantly, the father's gaze broke from his wife and drifted towards the child standing quietly by the streamside. His child, his precious and mischievous child, had begun a staring war against the drenched, sopping wig. With such an eccentric habit of waging battles, the father often wondered if the spirit of some reincarnated samurai was trapped within the child's soul, whose suppressed love for battle manifested itself in the shape of his fair-haired, pixie-like child. Laughing silently at the absurdity of his scenario, he spoke softly to capture the child's attention. 

"Seiji." 

The boy turned sharply at the sound of the familiar voice, his expression drawn back in pout irritation. Although annoyed by the interruption of his battle, relief appeared on the child's face at the sight of his father. 

Overcome by formalities, the child stood upright, his form extended full-length. The boy was fairly tall for his age, and the dignity with which he composed himself filled the father with an unmatched sense of pride. He smiled for a moment, repeating the boy's name yet again. 

"Seiji." 

At that point, the mother once again leaned forward, her hand extended towards the child in offering. Pondering for but a moment, the child glided forward to embrace his mother's touch, his fingertips brushing lightly against her own. The mother smiled. 

And with that, the trio left the circle of trees at the edge of their estate. They passed the side walls of their house and proceeded towards the stone steps of the family shrine, before crossing the chrysanthemum patch and entering the main hall of their dojo. 

Maybe, just maybe, the child was searching for an identity. 


End file.
